Page 97 of Rescued by the Single Dad

Pulling out a chair at the table, he helped her into it, then ran for the first thing he could think of, which was a soup pot in the drying rack of the sink. He managed to get it to her just in time before she leaned over and vomited.

“Charming fellow, isn’t he?” Rocco asked dryly, shaking his head as anger flickered in his green eyes.

Clint swept Brooke’s hair away from her face and just tucked it down the back of her shirt as she held the pot and wretched up milk and cookies.

“This has gone from terrible to ... I don’t even know,” Brooke said, her words echoing in the bowl. “He’s going to ruin my career. My life.”

“No, he won’t. We won’t let him,” Rocco said. “I’ll go on the news and set the record straight. I’ll even call up that Tinsley McTavish and get her to interview me.”

Brooke shook her head. “No. That’s what he wants. Fletcher wants to fight. He wants the attention. He always wanted attention. If you respond, you’re giving him what he wants. More news outlets will interview him and give him a platform. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

Clint didn’t necessarily agree with her. He leaned toward Rocco’s way of thinking. Counter Fletcher’s story with the truth. And if that meant telling the world some of the shit Fletcher really did to discredit him, then so be it. Nobody would blame Brooke for what happened when they knew the whole story. When they knew Fletcher was a murderer.

Since the media had already found Fletcher, did that mean any kind of gag order Brooke’s PR team had put into place over the last decade was now obsolete?

Surely, she had a posthumous clause somewhere. That all her dirty laundry stayed buried even after her death. And she wasn’t even declared dead, yet, so legally, they needed to continue to keep things hidden and track down any leaks.

He rubbed her back. “We’ll figure it out.”

Lifting her head, she used the back of her wrist to wipe her mouth. Rocco went to the kitchen to grab her some paper towel and a glass of water.

“I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do,” Rocco said, returning. “But think about it. Dad’s not going to expect me to agree to an interview—he knows I hate the limelight. So when I do, it’ll carry a lot of weight. Besides, the man will say anything to deflect the blame. He’s a narcissist whose native language is gaslighting.”

Brooke swallowed and accepted the water, finishing it in one long sip. “I just need to think.”

The more Clint thought about it, the more he believed Fletcher Barber had something to do with the attempt on Brooke’s life. The fact that he insisted her death was a suicide spoke volumes. He wanted the media and public to form an opinion that would stick, even before the police made any kind of an official ruling.

Rocco said he’d been convicted of multiple crimes and sentenced to something like fifty years. But maybe they’d reopened the case, and he was up for an appeal? If Brooke was brought in as a witness, that would definitely be bad, so the best thing to do was eliminate her from the equation all together. Brooke obviously had a will, and Clint hedged a guess that Rocco stood to inherit everything if she passed. But who inherited her estate if Rocco was dead?

Incarcerated people could still inherit estates.

If Fletcher was behind all of this, maybe he had someone coming after Rocco next.

Maybe he anticipated Rocco coming to Washington state, and now he was a sitting duck?

He shook his head and dismissed that conspiracy theory. He watched way too many Sherlock Holmes episodes, and they were starting to mess with him.

But the idea of eliminating Brooke before she could speak out against Fletcher still held merit.

He would keep that speculation to himself until he had a bit more time to think about it. To do some reading. He’d also run the idea past Rocco before he ran it past Brooke. The last thing he wanted to do was upset her even more.

Brooke stood up and gingerly walked back to where her box of supplies was still open and only half unpacked on the table. “I’m not going to let that bastard take anything else away from me,” she said with conviction as she opened up a vacuum sealed bag to reveal a white T-shirt. She met Rocco and Clint’s gaze, determination burning brightly in her irises. “Rocco, call that cop in Seattle. Let’s let him in on our little secret. Maybe if he knows I’m alive, we can use it to our advantage and flush out my killer.” Her nostrils flared, and relief flooded Clint.

His strong and brave woman was back. After a brief blip into despair, she was rallying and ready to fight. “Because Brooke Barker isn’t going to let anybody ruin her, let alone kill her. Least of all her mother-murdering father.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“I wasn’t sure you wanted to sleep in here after everything that happened today,” Clint rumbled as Brooke climbed into his bed, the heat of his gaze making gooseflesh break out across her arms. She ordered a pair of shorts and tank top pajamas that were butter-soft, and she nearly burst into tears of joy when she put them on after her shower. It was the simple things that she’d missed. Even though she didn’t mind wearing Clint’s clothes—in fact, she rather liked it—just wearing something that was hers, even if it was brand new, carried a weight of normalcy that she wasn’t entirely prepared for.

Smiling at him, she pumped some lotion—that she’d ordered—into her hands and worked it up her arms. “After what happened today, I don’t want to be alone.” She finished massaging the cardamon and olive oil lotion into her elbows, then snuggled under the covers and turned to him. “My life is in complete shambles right now.” Then she snorted before she could stop herself, burying her face in his naked chest. “And besides a handful of people, nobody even knows that I still have an actual life to be shambled.” She lifted her head and wrinkled her nose. “Is shambled even a word?”

“If it’s not, I’ll email Webster’s Dictionary tomorrow and request it. It should be.”

That made her smile.

Especially because she truly believed that he would email the dictionary people and request something like that for her.

He glanced over at his closed bedroom door. Talia had gone to bed hours ago, and Rocco, claiming jet lag exhaustion, retired to bed in the study a little over an hour ago. “It’s just us in here. The door is closed. The rest of the house is asleep. You don’t need to be strong anymore. Let me be the strong one. You crumble if you have to. I’ll pick up the pieces.”

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